Trigger
by Akahfied
Summary: Shizuo confronts Izaya, and this time he intends to end things. Not a shipping fic, but contains some Shizaya if you squint, I guess.


(( A/N: Alright, it's just a short (very short 8| ) drabble, but it's been nagging at my brain for awhile. Rating is foorrr death. :'D I don't hate Izaya, really. :'C;; The idea just kind of happened.))

"Oh, come now," Izaya purred, grinning and amused. "Waving that silly toy around won't make you any less of a caveman. And besides," he added in a more serious tone, "we both know you're not going to do _anything_."

Izaya was staring down at the barrel of a pistol—which, in turn, was pointed straight at his head. Certainly, this wasn't what he'd expected to turn around to, but he wasn't nervous. At least, not very. The brunette smirked and turned his body to fully face his assailant.

"Shizu-chan, do you really think you can pull that trigger?" He took a step or two towards Shizuo. The taller man kept his aim steady, and said nothing. A laugh bubbled up, erupting from Izaya's mouth.

"No, you can't; I know it, you know it…" He continued in a sing-song mocking tone. "You need me." Shizuo's eyes narrowed, but still, he remained silent. Izaya kept a steady pace towards him. His steps were bouncy; playful. He trotted forward until the gun was almost touching his forehead, and locked gazes with the blond man.

Orange light washed the alley and cast long shadows from buildings and lamp posts. Both men appeared silhouetted, their forms dark against golden sunset. It was completely deserted. No one there but the two, caught in confrontation.

Shizuo shifted his arm, ever so slightly, and clicked the safety off. The shorter man twitched visibly at the noise, but the grin stayed plastered to his face. A moment went by when neither of the two spoke. The silence seemed to crackle with tension. Izaya broke through the thick air, swallowed heavily, and laughed again. This time, it faltered a little in the start. It was beginning to make him a little uneasy, how quiet Shizuo was being. Not once had he told the brunette to shut up. He hadn't even responded to Izaya's taunts. Cautiously, the shorter man pushed harder; trying to goad him out of the silence.

"You need me, Shizu-chan," he repeated slowly. "Without me, what would you do? We balance each other, you and I." A slight snarl in the blond man's lips made Izaya flinch, though just barely. He paused for a beat, then, regaining confidence went on, "You never really wanted to kill me, did you? And now, does it really make any difference that you've got a gun, rather than a stop sign?" He punctuated the end of his last question with a spiteful half-giggle.

His breath hitched as Shizuo re-positioned his wrist. The taller man moved a little—seemed to be bracing himself. Izaya felt the color slowly drain from his face. Now the brunette was backing up again, as the reality of the situation sunk in. He was serious this time. Shizuo was really going to _kill him_. The smile froze on his mouth; he stumbled back; tried to put as much distance between himself and the pistol as he could. It was too late to run. This time, the blond man wasn't bluffing.

Izaya shook his head a little, breathed out one last mostly-earnest taunt. "You wouldn't really…" _He would, really. _

The crack of a gunshot rang out, reverberating throughout the buildings surrounding them, and traveling high above Ikebukuro. Izaya Orihara staggered upright for a couple of static, tense seconds; eyes wide, mouth wrenched upwards, playing about his face frighteningly—before dropping face-first onto the concrete, dead. A pool of red was slowly seeping out from the hole in his head that was definitely not where any kind of hole was supposed to go.

Shizuo panted a little, staring down at the corpse. His arm was still outstretched; his gun, still smoking. The blond man's face was drawn tight, wearing a completely stoic expression. He didn't move. The incredulity of what had just transpired—what he had just done—was dawning upon him. Dead. _Dead._ _Izaya was dead_. He had wanted this for years; had tried for it for years. And now it was done. The tiniest of smiles found its way onto his mouth.

Shizuo felt as though a part of his mind was freed. Yes, free—he was free from that man, that flea; he was free from him and all the things that he brought with him. A weight was lifted from his shoulders. With trembling hands, the blond man lowered his gun.

It was all over now. No more cat-and-dog warfare. The cat was gone. Tilting his face skywards into the receding light, he basked in the feeling. It felt good.

His smile was fading from where it came, replaced by the calmed look from earlier. Shizuo wondered briefly if dogs usually cried when their fleas were removed. His cheeks were wet, to his own irritation. It seemed…Almost as though a part of himself had died alongside the parka-clad information broker.

An echo of footsteps drawing close snapped him out of contemplative silence. Someone must have heard the gunshots; come to investigate, called the police. In one quick, dismissive motion, Shizuo wiped the salty moisture off of his face, pocketed the pistol, and darted away into long shadows before anyone discovered the scene.


End file.
